


Pitfalls of the Odd Pagan Holiday

by Elenothar



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, because this is England we're talking about, the Queen has her own alert code
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:06:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Christmas and there’s exactly nada to eat in their (sort of) shared apartment (which, if you ask James, is entirely Q’s fault – the man just can’t stop being so bloody distracting). </p>
<p>Also, terrorists, queen and country, and M don’t give a damn about pagan holidays. Go figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitfalls of the Odd Pagan Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this](http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?thread=886#t886) lovely prompt: Neither of them can cook. Which means Christmas dinner is not an option. IN WHICH THEY'RE CUTE AND ADORABLE WE NEED SOME FLUFF.
> 
> Don't expect too much plot, seriously, don't.

*

 

James Bond, known as 007 in most relevant circles, stares at the fridge, which, despite his best efforts, remains stubbornly empty. Not that the one at his own new apartment looks any different, since he hasn't really set foot in the place more than a dozen times since moving his things there from MI6 storage (and he'd only done _that_ so soon after returning because M had started bitching at him that they didn't have enough storage room as it was, never mind room for non-dead agents' stuff who didn't even bother calling in that they weren't, in fact, dead).

 

"Glaring any harder won't make food magically appear, James," an amused voice says from behind him.

 

"Yes, Q, thank you for adding your valuable two cents," he replies sourly. He might not give a rat's ass about these things most of the time, but this is his first Christmas with Q, and though he's never been anything but firmly convinced that if there was a God he could go fuck himself, there's still a traditional, nostalgic value to the holiday that reminds James of times long gone, and he doesn't particularly fancy buggering that up with a lack of food.

 

"I'll have you know that my mind and every thought it contains are probably worth more than even _you_ can imagine," Q retorts immediately, still sounding amused, the cheeky bugger.

 

James finally turns to face him, a smirk spreading across his face. Purposefully dropping his voice to a more sensuous scratch, he murmurs, "And are you quite sure about that? I distinctly recall you voicing a differing opinion this morning..."

 

Needling Q is always worth the considerable effort it takes, if only to watch that hint of a blush spreading across his cheeks. Though far from innocent, Q still retains some... youthful qualities.

Though Q makes an all-around adorable picture anyway, with his hair still tussled from sleep and only a cardigan (a hideous orange one this time) thrown on over his pyjamas. And not to forget the woollen socks.

 

Correctly interpreting his fond look, Q scowls. "Just because you somehow managed to make yourself immune to temperature changes by sheer force of will, doesn't mean I can't get cold. And we're _not_ having the discussion about the cardigans again."

 

James puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it. Now, why isn't there any food to be found in this kitchen?"

 

"Because I can't cook, and you're an absolute _disaster_ in the kitchen."

 

"Thanks ever so much," James says, a little sourly. "I'm not the one who managed to destroy the tea pot because I was 'distracted by that shiny gadget'."

 

"Might I remind you that 'that shiny gadget' saved your life just a few days later?" Q responds fake-indignantly.

 

"Hm," Bond murmurs, "that it did. I can't recall if I ever properly thanked you for it."

 

It's always good to have an excuse to kiss Q (not that he really needs one, but still... for once James doesn't mind playing the thankful agent who got his ass saved by the ever so helpful quartermaster), so he promptly proceeds to snog the smaller man six ways to Sunday (and back - he's just that good).

 

Demonstrating an astounding - and frustrating - resistance to his manly wiles, the first thing Q says when James lets him up for air is, "We still need to get food, though."

 

He growls lightly, but takes the hint and backs up to give his partner some breathing space.

 

Ten minutes later two of England’s best and brightest have only managed to determine that short of having Q hack into a _lot_ of public servers they’d probably starve before finding a suitable restaurant.

 

They end up calling Eve for help (Q's idea) and she immediately proceeds to laugh at them for a full five minutes (he had _told_ Q so, dammit). At least they do get the address of a good restaurant willing to prepare take-out on Christmas day out of it, but James isn't convinced that bit of information was worth this kind of torture. On the other hand Q is happily putting on another sweater – making himself look about twice as bulky than he actually is – in preparation of their excursion into snowy London. Even James Bond can't stay grumpy very long, faced with a sight like that.

 

How the mighty have fallen.

 

James is very much aware that, wandering through crowded streets, they seem passingly normal, Q and he, nothing more than another couple out on Christmas day, arguing over one storefront's particularly horrid decoration, not a care in the world. The thought always makes him laugh - while some might consider the notion touchingly sentimental, it’s so far of the mark it can't be anything other than a source of amusement. Normal simply isn't a word applicable to anything Q and he are, no matter how much one sugar-coats the reality of a highly trained MI6 agent and an equally highly qualified MI6 Quartermaster. He can't say he minds, and he knows Q, whose full name he still doesn't know (and that doesn't bother him, safe for the occasional itch of curiosity simply for curiosity's sake - he's Q and he's James’ and that's all he needs to know), doesn't either.

 

*

 

Both their phones start ringing at the same time, in the middle of their arduously procured dinner. They share a look, a sigh, and a reaction. They'll always answer the country's call.

 

Perhaps it's a sign of character that M only says, "Get your asses over here. Code Salmon."

 

Both of them are moving before M's hung up on them, decked table behind them – not forgotten, but faded into the background.

 

"Well, I don't think we can get more befitting of the Christmas spirit than saving the Queen's life," Q muses five minutes later, looking strangely out of place sitting in the back of Rolls Royce with its spotless black seats in a rumpled sweater and wilfully chaotic hair.

 

James snorts lightly in response. "We could be saving the Pope."

 

"And have you blow up half of the Vatican in the process? I don't think so."

 

"You're exaggerating," James complains archly. "It would probably end up being more of, say, a quarter. I'm sure they wouldn't miss a few centuries old churches."

 

Q looks at him then, his lips curved in that little smirk James so loves. "Are you ever going to get tired of your 'I'm just the brawn' shtick?"

 

"I see no reason, no. It makes people underestimate me so beautifully." He grins. "Besides, it makes M absolutely livid."

 

Q sighs reproachfully, face back to impassive, but James knows him too well to fall for it. After all he knows for a fact that Q likes baiting M just as much as he does - he's simply a lot more subtle and refined about it. James usually doesn't see the point in subtle and refined; it takes all the fun out of things, and fits Q better than him anyway.

 

Besides he doesn’t want to distract Q too much, since he’s already scrolling through the mission information on his laptop.

 

“The usual,” Q notes, “foiling an assassination attempt. Should be right up your alley. I’ll be in your ear the whole time.”

 

He smirks. “More like talking my ear _off_. And giving entirely unhelpful advice like ‘put your back into it’.”

 

“Are you _ever_ ,” Q half groans, half sighs, “going to let me live that down?”

 

“I had to shoot the lock!”

 

Q snorts, knowing full well that James has no issue whatsoever shooting things. “Oh, don’t be such a baby. You would’ve been fine.”

 

“I would’ve been _splattered all over the wall_ ,” he points out, just a tad incredulously. Killed by a ‘vexing’ train isn’t exactly what he usually imagines when thinking about his eventual demise.

 

“But you weren’t.”

 

“Yes. Because I _shot the bloody lock_.”

 

“As I said before. Sometimes someone’s still needed to pull a trigger. It’s interesting how you frequently manage to prove that point, 007.”

 

Needless to say that Q is one of the few people alive, who can give him a run for his money when it comes to winning arguments, playful or not.

 

It isn’t strictly speaking necessary for them to engage in pre-mission banter, James having been in the game far too long to still be nervous before a mission, and Q having already shown a surprising set of steely nerves beneath the quirky exterior, but the distraction is welcome nonetheless. If there’s one thing James doesn’t deal well with, it’s inaction, and this car ride is a prime example of exactly that.

 

As they enter MI6 headquarters through one of the many hidden back entrances, he reflects that, really, the concept of normalcy is quite overrated. Next to him Q smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Code Salmon - I just thought it would be funny if the Queen had her own red alert, so to speak. Actually, I totally wouldn't be surprised if she did. And the salmon, well, I couldn't stop thinking about that dress she wore during the Olympic Games Opening Ceremony... don't shoot me?


End file.
